My mother consulted the clinical thermometer. My temperature was 103° F, and I was covered with a flaming rash. Dr Ogg was called at once.

Dr Ogg was not an ornament of the medical profession, and he was rarely called to our house except in extreme emergencies. Dr Ogg was a drunk and a failure. His wife had run away long ago to pursue a life of shame in Winnipeg, which must certainly have been more lively than life with Dr Ogg. Since her departure the doctor had declined into dirt and moral squalor. His livelihood was earned chiefly by writing prescriptions for bottles of gin, whisky, and brandy, required regularly by the few …